Realistic
by cagedghost
Summary: Short one-shot of Thomas catering to Jimmy's needs. Rated M for mature content.


Thomas Barrow is no fool.

Especially when it comes to Jimmy Kent.

He doesn't pretend that the pretty little head footman harbors anything for him other than a basic need for release.

He doesn't question it, nor does he invite it. But if it's a chance to be close to the blond, Thomas is more than willing.

He's about to stub out his nightly cigarette when he feels a presence behind him. He immediately recognizes the owner.

"James."

The footman remains stock still, expression caught between uncomfortable and nervous. He opens his mouth, closes it.

Thomas stands, lingering longer than necessary to pull his uniform jacket on.

When Jimmy finally speaks, his voice wavers. "I was hopin' you could spare me some time later. Perhaps we could meet outside...near the garden shed."

Thomas doesn't turn around; he merely nods. When he does glance behind his shoulder, Jimmy is long gone.

As he watches Jimmy close the wooden door of the shed behind him, he registers a dull fear resonating through the footman. It's pitch black; seemingly vacant to the young man.

He inhales the sweet tobacco, a crisp red glow appearing, followed by a bored exhale of silvery smoke.

Thomas watches from hooded eyes as Jimmy steps toward it tentatively.

A crack on the roof allows a sliver of moonlight to permeate the velvety darkness, revealing a thin line of the tall under-butler to Jimmy. He is vaguely aware of how hard his heart is beating.

Thomas tosses his cigarette to the ground, his polished shoe diminishing its ashy embers.

He waits.

He can't help but appreciate the smaller man's bright eyes, his straight nose, full lips that smile ever so nicely, his lovely high cheekbones. Copper blond curls, neatly combed back into a stylish hairdo that frame his delicate, handsome features.

He stares hard into oceanic blue eyes. Eyes that could have gazed up lovingly at him in some unknown, kinder universe. He realizes how much he still cares for him. How he would do anything, give anything for Jimmy.

"I'm not...like you." Jimmy insists it, each word a separate hole drilled into Thomas' chest. He knows it's a strategy for Jimmy to use in order to justify their little meeting, yet it doesn't halt the incessant ache he feels.

The footman clears his throat quietly. "Shall we, er, get on with it then?"

There was a time when Thomas wished for slow kisses, gentle caresses in the cloak of the night. Not a cheap fuck.

The older man ignores his inner turmoil in favor of pleasing Jimmy, moving to a kneeling position in front of the footman.

He concentrates on pulling the other's trousers down, his uniform jacket up. On filling his mouth with the taste of Jimmy. On trying not to mistake the blond's surprised moans of pleasure for praise. Just moving back and forth, gathering saliva, his hand teasing along the shaft whilst his tongue applied attention elsewhere.

He can't help but slide one slicked finger, then two, three, exploring Jimmy's very core, his heat. Crooking them just right, so as he slides his mouth back and forth along the blond's shaft, he's met with eager bucks, delicious rolling motions of nimble hips. Can't help but flick his eyes up, enjoying the beautiful sight of Jimmy, mouth open, eyes shut tight in oblivious pleasure.

And when Thomas finds himself standing, hurriedly positioning Jimmy against the wall of the shed as he pushes his own trousers down, he bites back his animalistic sounds of pleasure as he inches into the other's tightness.

Thomas barely registers Jimmy covering his mouth with a gloved hand, forehead pressing against the cool wood when he allows the older man to take him, shallow thrusts fluidly transitioning into harsh rams as Thomas fucks him in earnest.

And as Thomas repeatedly pushes Jimmy over the edge until the younger releases, all shaky legs and shortness of breath, he tells himself it was for the footman's own benefit; no mutual involvement.

He quickly pulls out of Jimmy, finishing himself off on his own accord, not wanting to soil the younger.

And when Jimmy scampers off, still straightening his livery, Thomas tries not to think how the other is ridding himself of what they just shared.

He fails to convince himself that the wetness seeping onto his cheeks aren't tears.

After all, Thomas Barrow is no fool.


End file.
